Tag Archives: horrors of bra shopping

I seem to have a pattern of falling in love with certain cable television shows. Our affair lasts the few weeks the show is on and then, boom, it ends and I am dumped on my loyal little tushie, pining away for new episodes which generally take months to produce. When the new season finally airs, I've likely developed a new crush, thank you very much.

Lately, my obsession has been with the cable show American Horror Story. Bitty can't stand any entertainment that falls under the category of horror and thinks this affair of mine is nuts to which I say, Duh, of course I'm nuts, that's what I tell people every week on this blog.

Anyway, my latest cable obsession got me to thinking -- Do you have an American Horror Story? If so, what is it?

Scary, yes... but not as scary as what's in your lingerie drawer...

I’ll go first. Mine occurs periodically every few years — no, not when my creepy Southern belle neighbor played by Jessica Lange shows up to feed me a muffin laced with ipecac — but when I go (insert horror music here) bra shopping. (I know. Ladies, I’ll wait for you all to stop vomiting before I go on.)

And the scariest bra-related word of all? Underwires, ouchie, ouchie, yowser... It might as well be barbed wire.

This bra underwire looks innocuous, but it's MURDER... wahaha

Truly, I'd rather fight off spookily sexy men clad in black rubber suits. Bra shopping makes these men in rubber seem innocuous (especially when faced with the lingerie department's version of Eva Braun kneading my dumplings to death to measure that proper bra fit).

In fact, these department store czars frighten me so much that I learned during my last TV love affair how to size myself for brassieres. Yes, indeedy. I listened to those drag queens on RuPaul's Drag U and gained the knowledge of how to finally dress like a woman. Maybe one of these days I'll decide to put it to use.

Now here's a bra with everything a girl could want...

Until then, I’m staying in my old, misshapen bras from 1994 and hiding the bazooms whenever possible under layers of sweatshirt material. That is, unless I can find one of these bacon bras, comfortable and tasty. Might be worth getting kneaded by Eva Braun to get fit for one of these…